


Tactile Maneuvers

by apollojusticeforall



Series: Tactile [2]
Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Bones swears a lot (as he should), M/M, Nazi mention but only to say they suck, Pining Spock, a generous interpretation of vulcan hand sensitivity, repressed spock, the eroticism of hands, the intimacy of touch, touch-starved Spock, vulcan hand kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:01:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25025080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollojusticeforall/pseuds/apollojusticeforall
Summary: Doctor Leonard McCoy was, what some might call, a “handsy” doctor.
Relationships: Leonard "Bones" McCoy/Spock
Series: Tactile [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812097
Comments: 18
Kudos: 193





	Tactile Maneuvers

**Author's Note:**

> Can be read as a continuation of the last work or as a separate story with a similar theme.

Doctor Leonard McCoy was, what some might call, a “handsy” doctor.

This is not to say that he handled his patients inappropriately, but more that he had a “hands-on” approach to treatment. A simple wave of a scanner could reveal all life readings of any individual, but he claimed that the best way to find a pulse was still to press two fingers to the inside of a patient’s wrist and count the heartbeats. He could massage any sore muscle into complacency, relocate any joint with the right amount of pressure, or tell the extent and location of any muscle strain just by feeling the general area of the body.

It was not that the doctor did not trust the technology, more that he would rather rely on his own abilities than chance a malfunction. However, he was not foolish enough to refuse technological aid. He did not allow his stubbornness to cost him his patients’ lives, which he valued above even his own safety. He begrudgingly applied what he called “civilized” medical technology, but no nonindustrialized planet, alien hostiles, or tricorder malfunctions ever prevented him from treating a patient.

In a way, he performed his best work in the field. Although he complained heartily about the limited applications contained in the Federation-issue medkits, he could treat most of the landing party’s injuries with a hypospray, a portable regenerator, or a practiced application of a pressure point.

He had no reservations about physical contact either, not when it came to the crew’s health. When a crewman was injured, whether it was a rookie security guard or the captain, he was first to kneel down and place a hand on their shoulder. He checked pulses, felt foreheads, pushed on stomachs to free objects from the lungs, anything and everything that he deemed necessary to keep them alive. He was so resourceful in his methods, sometimes it appeared that, if he needed to, he could heal someone solely through the manipulation of touch.

* * *

Most of the _Enterprise_ crew kept their distance from Spock. Logic would suggest that they were being respectful of Vulcans’ values of personal space and aversion to physical contact, but the rumors on the ship revealed that the reason was more because they were intimidated by his stiff stance and hard, dark eyes.

Even Captain Kirk, well-known as Spock’s closest friend, mostly kept his hands to himself, though in times of trouble, he would periodically pat Spock on the arm. Lieutenant Uhura occasionally infringed on his personal space as well, linking her arm around his elbow when they walked together. She never held on for more than a few seconds, and they would resume pleasant conversation without touching. Or sometimes Ensign Chekov stood a little too close to him at the science station, and their elbows would bump or they would be knocked into each other during some turbulence, after which, the young ensign always blushed and apologized profusely. Spock did not hold any grievances against accidental contact, but everyone else on the _Enterprise_ took care not to touch him.

The blatant exception to this unspoken rule was, of course, the ship’s resident surgeon.

The rest of the crew’s innate warriness around touching the Vulcan seemed to have no effect on Dr. McCoy, who bumped and prodded and grabbed Spock at a higher rate than everyone else on the ship combined. He remained oblivious of the common ratio of space the other crewmembers had determined for Spock. On the contrary, the doctor often stood so close he could be described as “hovering.” Such proximity caused abundant opportunity for physical contact, and if Spock even slightly shifted positions, he would brush against McCoy’s arm or chest or thigh.

If Spock were injured on a landing party, the doctor would grasp his arm before he had even activated his scanner. If they ever did not have a regenerator available (which was quite often given the frequent amount of trouble the _Enterprise_ encountered on foreign planets), he would slow blood flow from an open wound with his own hand if he had to.

A routine medical checkup resulted in the most of the unnecessary pokes and pats. McCoy always complained that he would not have to push Spock around so much if he just cooperated with the scans, which inclined Spock to cooperate less. Spock attempted to insist that he did not need medical checks as frequently as the human crewmembers because his superior Vulcan biology allowed him to regulate his life systems, but the doctor always told him that was “horse shit” and shoved him onto a biobed.

Spock did not allow himself to attribute emotions to certain experiences, but he had decided that he did not like these checkups, although the reasoning to him was not initially apparent.

In truth, Spock was not as adverse to touch as his human companions seemed to believe. When he had first been assigned to the _Enterprise_ years ago, his presence had incited whispers of Vulcan touch telepathy, which had generated a great deal of fear and mystique. Naturally, the rumors were not entirely accurate. Vulcan telepathy was indeed enhanced by physical contact with the subject, but rigorous mental training was required for an individual to fully read another’s mind, and all Vulcans were taught mental shielding techniques to prevent unwanted telepathic contact. Spock could not actually read another’s thoughts through physical contact unless he specifically intended.

Usually when someone touched him, he could garner a vague sense of their mental state—the subject of their thoughts, some surface emotions. Spock touching someone else produced different results, as Vulcan hands carried their telepathic sensors. Skin-to-skin contact yielded much stronger readings than contact through layers of clothing. On most of these accidental touches to his arms or shoulders, what little connection he could sense was typically faint enough for him to ignore.

There were, however, exceptions. More specifically for Spock, there was one exception.

Whenever Leonard McCoy touched him, regardless of the position on his body, Spock received a full, unavoidable readout of the doctor’s mental condition. His actual thoughts were often difficult for Spock to discern though, mainly because they were overwrought with layers of emotion.

Spock had never before encountered a mind as emotionally chaotic as McCoy’s. The man projected every feeling he had whenever he touched Spock. The most common emotions were fear, worry, anger, and irritation. Spock sensed it all, even with miniscule contact. Usually, the touch was brief—they would bump into each other while they walked down the hallway or knock elbows while they bickered on the bridge. The touch was enough to momentarily disorientate Spock as he categorized and dismissed the emotional onslaught, but he regained control of himself in an average of 7.2 seconds.

For this reason, Spock did not like the medical checkups.

He could discipline his mind throughout any limited interaction with Dr. McCoy, but a prolonged period of exposure rapidly weakened his mental defenses. Logically, he knew it was not the human’s fault, that his mind could not control the sensations he output to a touch telepath. Still, Spock’s concentration struggled as he endured the increased physical contact that accompanied an examination. Completion of one left him weary and ornery, and he required extra time in meditation controlling his emotional responses.

As for the touch itself, that did not bother Spock, and he did not like it precisely because it did not bother him as much as he believed it should. Contrary to the doctor’s harsh tone and copious insults, his touch was always gentle. He handled Spock’s body firmly enough to assert his presence but delicately enough that the touch was never painful. His hands moved with a grace that one would not have attributed to him on sight alone, and his fingers were always precise, whether with a scalpel or a hypo or a pulsepoint.

Spock convinced himself that the contradiction in the doctor’s behavior was what disturbed him. He did not allow himself to think about how pleasant it felt to be touched without vacillation when every other being he encountered avoided his body as if he carried a disease. Instead, he found himself watching the doctor’s hands more closely, looking for a pattern, an explanation for how he could inhabit such a tumultuous emotional state without falling apart.

McCoy had caught him staring before, and had snapped at him for questioning his measurements in the antidote they had been concocting. Even while he yelled at Spock for being an “overbearing, pointed-eared, obnoxious backseat driver,” his hands stayed in constant motion, measuring chemicals and mixing formula at an equal speed to the insults streaming from his mouth. He never spilled a drop, nor did he have to recalculate any of his samples.

Spock had been so fixated on the independence of the two actions that he had not bothered to tell McCoy that his solution to the compound they had synthesized was not the subject of his study.

* * *

Spock went to Jim for answers.

The captain was McCoy’s best friend on the _Enterprise_ and sometimes the only person he looked at without his signature scowl. If anyone could explain how such an explosive and temperamental personality could simultaneously display such careful focus and compassion, it was Jim.

When Spock posed the question to him, however, he only laughed and told Spock to “try and get along for once.” Spock attempted to clarify his query, but Jim seemed to misinterpret his pursuit of knowledge as an attempt to start a quarrel.

“I’ve told you both, I’m not taking sides. Sort your problems out like the big boys you are.” Jim smiled when he said it though, as an indication of good humor. He reached out an hand as if to pat Spock’s arm, but then retracted it, and instead made a strange gesture with his pointer finger and thumb outstretched (something he described as a “fingergun”) before walking away.

Spock next asked Lieutenant Uhura her opinion. At times, Spock thought the communications officer to be the most intelligent person on the _Enterprise_ and welcomed her thoughts on any subject.

She, too, frowned at his question. “That’s quite the peculiar subject matter, Mr. Spock. What brought this on?”

Spock calculated a few possible reasons to provide the lieutenant, but they all edged too close to the truth he was unwilling to acknowledge. “It is simply a matter of curiosity.”

Uhura shook her head. “I’ll be of no help in answering for you what makes Dr. McCoy tick. You should ask Christine. She spends the most time with him outside of the captain.” She nudged him with her elbow. “You know she has a crush on you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I thought that this ‘crush,’ as you describe it, had since rescinded after you and the young nurse began courting?”

The mischievous smile twisting Uhura’s lips was her only answer. She looped her arm through Spock’s and changed the subject to an old recording of Bessie Smith, a famous twentieth-century Earth singer, she had discovered in a restored digital archive.

Nurse Chapel reacted to Spock’s question with the same confusion as the others. “Mr. Spock, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. You want to know about Dr. McCoy’s . . . hands?”

An uncomfortable wave of heat rushed to Spock’s face, and he tried to quell his reaction before the nurse noticed. “You misunderstand. I am simply puzzled by his intentions at times, and since you are the one most acquainted with his company, Lieutenant Uhura thought that—”

Chapel shook her head. “So Nyota put you up to this, huh?”

“That is not what I—”

She waved him off. “No matter. I can’t tell you anyway, I sure as hell don’t know what’s in Leonard’s head. Did you ask the captain? He’s known him longer than me.”

Spock looked away. “The captain told me to, quote, sort your problems out like a big boy, end quote.”

Chapel snorted, slapped a hand over her mouth, then convulsed into a fit of laughter. “I’m sorry, Mr. Spock. It’s just that only you could say something so ridiculous with such a straight face.” She took a few deep breaths to calm herself.

“Well I can tell you this. Half the things Leonard says he doesn’t really mean, not in the way he says them at least. You gotta watch what he does and not listen to what he says.” When Spock did not reply, Chapel folded her arms and leaned against a biobed. “Okay, how about this. He’s scared the shit out of just about every intern that’s ever been transferred to the _Enterprise_ , but at the end of their assignment he writes each and every one of them a recommendation so glowing you’d think they had discovered the cure for the common cold.”

Spock absorbed this information, though he was not certain how to analyze it, or whether it contributed to answering his query.

Chapel tilted her head. “He doesn’t hate you, you know.”

Spock blinked. “I fail to see the relevance.”

“That’s why you’re asking, right? Because you two fight all the time? Oh, he complains about you constantly, but he doesn’t actually hate you,” Chapel said, as if that provided clarification. “In fact, he respects you probably more than anyone else on this ship.” She leaned forward, lips pulled up in a sly smile. “Don’t ever tell him I told you. He’d make me clean hypos for a month.”

“I . . .” Spock was confused by the release of tension in his shoulders at the receival of information he already knew. He ignored the emotion. “It shall be our secret.”

* * *

The mission was supposed to be straightforward—beam down to a Class-M planet, collect some samples of the native plantlife, repair the subspace transmissions receiver, and continue to the next assignment.

Following a similar progression to 98.92% of their away missions, everything went horribly wrong.

Gagarin IV’s civilization was recorded as peaceful the last time a Federation starship had visited for repairs. Now, the landing party security detail was all dead, the captain had been captured, and Spock and Dr. McCoy were crawling on their hands and knees through a series of tunnels beneath the capital city of the corrupt government that controlled the planet.

“How the hell does this keep happening to us?” McCoy grumbled behind Spock. “Just once I’d like to visit a planet where the local life doesn’t try to kill us, torture us, brainwash us, or otherwise experiment on us.”

Spock adjusted his grip on the communicator they were using as a light source so he could push a small pile of rubble out of the way. The tunnels were cramped and densely dark, so the communicator did not illuminate much more than about 34.1 centimeters ahead. “I must point out that we visit many of these planets with the intention of running experiments on the so-called local life. It is only logical that they would wish to study us as well.”

He did not need to look behind him to know McCoy was rolling his eyes. “I swear, Spock, it’s like you only hear every other word I say.”

“Difficult to keep track, when there are so many of them.”

McCoy responded in a groan. “I’ll never understand why Jim thinks you’re so goddamn funny.” He went quiet after that remark, likely wondering about the current state of the captain.

Spock’s thoughts drifted as well. The last time they had seen Jim, a man twice his weight was pummeling the side of his face. Spock shook his head to clear the image of the captain’s unconscious body being dragged away while all he and the doctor could do without risk of being captured themselves was sit and watch. It was pointless to dwell on the past. They had to keep moving forward if they were to rescue Jim.

They crawled a little further before McCoy broke the silence again. “At least there aren’t any fucking Nazis this time. I’m so sick of running into Nazis. When has there ever been a single time in history where the Nazis come out looking like the good guys?”

“Doctor, might I suggest that we cease with the irrelevant commentary and focus on our current objective?” In the dimness, Spock could barely make out a slope of the tunnel wall that widened into a slightly larger cavern. Even with his enhanced Vulcan strength, he could feel the soreness settling into his back muscles from the hours of hunched travel. He braced his hand against the wall and attempted to stand.

“I’m just saying that even though everything’s horrible and Jim’s probably getting his ass beat again that as long as I never have to meet another brain-scrambled, goose-stepping fanatic I can—”

As soon as Spock leaned into the wall, something in the tunnel structure cracked, and a chunk of the cavern crumbled. The brunt of the rock collided with Spock’s left arm and shoulder. He stumbled under the sudden weight and fell to the floor.

Instantly, McCoy was at his side, tricorder whirring. He placed his hand on Spock’s forearm. Spock jerked away.

“Dammit, is it that bad? I would kill to have my medkit still with me.” He moved towards Spock again, and this time Spock backed away so forcefully his back slammed into the pile of rock he had just collapsed.

“No.” His voice had an unusual breathless quality. “I am fine.” He could not do this, not now. Not when Jim’s life was in danger. He could not afford to be distracted by everything he perceived, everything he felt when McCoy touched him.

“Like hell you are, scanner reads two fractures in your fingers and a sprain in your wrist. Now let me see for myself.”

Though the cavern was larger vertically, it was not much wider than the previous tunnels, so there was no way for Spock to put any more distance between them. He still tried. “That is unnecessary.”

McCoy huffed. “Stop acting like an infant, Spock. Just let me look at your hand and we can get the hell out of here.” He grabbed Spock’s hand, and it was not any pain receptors that made Spock flinch.

“Do not touch me.” The command came out in a growl, from a deep, savage place in the back of his throat that he had long thought he had mastered.

McCoy froze. They had had plenty of arguments before, some serious, most were over nothing, but Spock had never spoken to him like that.

He quickly recovered, the look of surprise on his face washed away by his trademark scowl. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Spock? We don’t have time for this. Now gimme your fucking hand.”

“I do not like it when you touch me,” Spock said between his teeth, the closest to a snarl he had ever sounded.

“It never bothered you before, now what—”

“It did bother me before!” Spock’s voice rang throughout the cavern, his own words beating back against his ears. It was then that he realized his body’s life systems were out of control—his pulse rate was up, neck and arms slick with perspiration, breaths heavy and labored.

McCoy’s jaw ground. The harsh spotlight of the communicator, from where Spock had dropped it, highlighted his eyes, hard as diamonds, as he glared. “Why the hell didn’t you say anything? We been up in the black together for three fucking years and you never bothered to tell me? I’m not a fucking telepath, Spock, I can’t read your goddamn mind.”

“It is because you are not a telepath that it bothers me.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Spock took a shaky breath while he willed his body back under control. “Vulcans are touch telepaths. We can sense the thoughts of those we are in physical contact with. Connection is strongest when the contact is skin to skin.”

“Skip the biology lesson. I thought that didn’t affect you since you got those mind-shield things?”

“Normally, yes, but your thoughts are so _chaotic_ I feel them anyway.” Spock’s volume increased as he neared the end of the sentence so he was almost shouting again. He took another breath. His pulse was not responding to his mind’s commands.

McCoy’s stare was piercing. “Are you seriously saying that your mind-protection mumbo-jumbo doesn’t work all because I’m, because I’m what? Too emotional?”

“Yes.”

McCoy threw his hands in the air and sat back on his heels. “Ridiculous.” He jabbed a finger in Spock’s direction. “Well, guess what, Spock? I am emotional! Because I’m human! That’s just the way it works! I’m not you, my brain doesn’t run on numbers, it runs on _feelings_.”

“That does not bother me, doctor, as long as I am not subjected to them.”

“Then how ‘bout you shut up for five minutes and let me fix your fucking hand and I’ll never touch you again! Deal?”

That stunned Spock into silence. A conglomerate of emotions churned within him—fear, confusion, anger, anxiety, too many to properly name at the moment. In his mind, he blamed his fractured control on contact with McCoy’s hyper-emotional state, but on a deeper level he knew that was not true. This set came from inside him, the part he had been taught since childhood to monitor, to suppress. The shame he felt was solely for his own shortcomings.

He compelled the tension from his muscles and sagged against the wall, relenting with a bow of his head.

McCoy watched him for a moment longer. When Spock offered no other reply, he scooted closer. Slowly, he reached a hand towards Spock’s, watching the Vulcan’s face.

Spock closed his eyes. Illogical to believe that if he did not have to watch, then it would be over sooner, but he did not want to face the alternative.

He felt the exact millisecond McCoy’s skin pressed against his. Gingerly, McCoy picked up his hand and turned it over so his palm faced up. His left hand supported the back of Spock’s hand, Spock’s knuckles resting across the top of his palm and the base of his first finger, while his right hand traced the sides of Spock’s fingers, pressing at each bone to determine the breaks.

Spock’s concentration was already weak from the tumultuous day and the heat of their argument, so his mental shields were all but nonexistent. He was swept up in the hurricane of McCoy’s emotions, its power increased by every time the doctor brushed against one of the more sensitive receptors in Spock’s fingers. All that Spock had felt and tried to suppress moments before—fear, anger, hurt—was amplified in McCoy by a thousand. He felt his frustration at Spock for their fight, his worry over Jim, his anxiety at being trapped on another hostile planet and watching his friends get hurt with little he could do to help them. Everything flooded Spock’s senses until the sound and smell and feel of the tunnels were drowned out by the all-encompassing presence that was Leonard McCoy.

And yet beneath all the chaos, Spock sensed the secondary thread that had come to fascinate him so. The compassion, the care in which McCoy treated his injury. The hope that they would save Jim and go back to the _Enterprise_ , back home. There was also sadness, mourning for the relationship they had gradually built, and regret, terror that something had broken between them that couldn’t be fixed.

Spock floated in that soft center, the eye of the storm. The longer he lingered in that part of McCoy’s mind, the less the turmoil of his emotions frightened him. He now saw the patterns in McCoy’s tides of ostensible irrationality. He also sensed the underlying love that interlaced all his thoughts, never spoken, but still present. With this understanding, Spock was now forced to confront the one factor in his equation that he could not rationalize away.

The doctor lowered Spock’s hand back into his lap. There was a ripping sound as he tore a strip from the bottom of his shirt. Then he picked up Spock’s hand again and wound the fabric around his wrist. Each brush of his fingers against Spock’s skin pushed more concern and care through to his mind. The rhythm was soothing, and Spock allowed his own intense emotions to be lulled into calm. For one peaceful moment, all other thoughts abandoned his mind—the tunnels, the planet, even the _Enterprise_ orbiting somewhere above them. Nothing else existed except McCoy’s hand at the exact points where it brushed against his own.

“You’ll need a spot under a regenerator when we get back to the ship, but this should hold you for now.” McCoy let go and sat back.

The connection between them fizzled into the dry air of the tunnels. Spock felt hollow without his touch, like he had found a piece of himself that had been missing, only to have it ripped out again.

“Don’t go throwing any punches in there, and you might wanna ease up on the voodoo neck grab, too.” The insult was not doused in the venom it once was, more like McCoy was trying for a semblance of normalcy between them, back to a time before they had decided they were friends, but it did not sit right anymore.

Their eyes met in the light of the discarded communicator, and Spock experienced a flash of panic that the connection had somehow worked both ways, that McCoy could sense everything that he was thinking. Then the doctor looked away, picked up the communicator, and started walking, and Spock remembered that indeed, humans were not touch telepaths.

* * *

After this incident, their relationship seemed the most strained it had ever been.

They worked together well enough to rescue the captain, outsmart the hostiles, and safely return to the _Enterprise_ , but as soon as they beamed into the transporter room, McCoy dragged Jim down to sickbay to treat his injuries. Spock was left standing alone on the transporter pad, watching how the doctor held onto Jim’s wrist when he slung his arm over his shoulder.

4.22 hours passed before Spock was summoned to sickbay for his wrist to be healed. Dr. M’Benga programmed the osteo-regenerator for him. Spock did not ask what was occupying Dr. McCoy.

Two days later, Jim approached him on the bridge. “Spock,” he started. His arms were folded across his chest, and a line of worry creased his brows. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

Spock straightened from where he had been peering into his scanner. “Yes, Captain?”

Jim’s eyes darted across Spock’s face, then he looked down. “I know you and Bones don’t always get along, but . . .” He looked directly at Spock. “Did something happen?”

Spock shoulders tightened against his will. “You shall have to specify, Captain.”

“I don’t know, it’s just—” Jim shrugged “—he’s been acting weird ever since we got back from Gagarin IV. I thought it might be his anxiety acting up again, but he gets extra testy when I talk about you, like more than normal, so I thought . . .” He trailed off.

Spock did not offer a reply, since none was requested. His gaze dropped momentarily, before he returned to staring straight ahead.

Jim noticed. Jim always noticed. “Look, are you guys . . . good? Usually when you fight, you make up by now, and well—”

“Captain,” Spock said, “it is nothing you need concern yourself with. We are, as you once said, ‘big boys,’ and can sort matters out ourselves, if there are any that require resolution.”

Jim did not laugh at Spock’s use of colloquialism. “If there’s anything I can do to help—”

“Not necessary. It is nothing that would interfere with our duties on the ship; therefore, the issue is irrelevant.”

Jim did not believe him, but he said nothing more. His gaze flicked down to Spock’s hands, stiff at his sides, but he kept his own arms folded across his chest.

* * *

Later that week, Spock was summoned to sickbay for a follow-up on his injury. Spock disliked these post-treatment checks because he had always thought that if he was well into full recovery, his time was better spent elsewhere. He dreaded this check more than usual, and the brief meditation he had attempted that morning did nothing to remove the dread from his mind.

Upon entering sickbay, he was greeted by Nurse Chapel.

She smiled at him. “Mr. Spock, take a seat. The doctor will be out shortly.”

Spock inclined his head and settled rigidly onto the edge of the biobed.

Chapel wrote some notes down on her PADD. “I must admit, I’m surprised you came so soon. Usually, we have to drag you out of the science labs for your regulated med checks.”

“This time I thought it best to ‘rip the band-aid off,’ as you humans like to say.”

Chapel laughed. Spock was not trying to be funny.

“I guess that makes our job easier. Sit tight.” She smiled at him over her shoulder as she left the room.

Spock focused on his breathing. The dread was pooling in his lower abdomen, and his mantras were not effective in purging the emotion.

The door to Dr. McCoy’s office swished open. The doctor met his gaze for a second. Then, he looked away and busied himself by scrolling through a PADD.

“Wasn’t expecting you until later. M’Benga’s tied up in the med lab right now, but since you’re here, we won’t waste more of your time.” He tapped through the PADD’s screen too quickly to be actually reading the information.

Spock noticed the thin gloves covering his hands. “Do you anticipate that a surgery will be required?”

McCoy raised an eyebrow at him. “What? No, I just wanna make sure there’s no abnormal bone degeneration. There’s been a few bugs reported with the regenerator model we have, so we’d much rather monitor the recovery in case any of the side effects—”

Since he was clearly about to launch into another of his cautionary lectures on relying on medical technology, Spock interrupted. “Then why are you wearing your surgical gloves?”

McCoy’s expression was wiped blank in surprise. He looked away again, fingers tapping against the PADD. “You told me skin-to-skin contact makes it worse, your telepathy, so I thought it would help.”

Spock swallowed. His esophagus felt tight, but it was illogical to think that his digestive tract had altered sizes. “That will not be necessary.”

McCoy’s head snapped up. “Spock, I don’t want—”

“Doctor.” The tension between them was thick with everything they had said in the tunnels. Spock was still petrified by what he would feel, yet the thought of him being so close and not touching him reminded him of the phantom pressure that haunted the back of his hand. “Please.”

McCoy only stared at him. Something about the intensity of his gaze had always unnerved Spock, but he could not have admitted that to himself until now. Spock could not look at someone and read their emotional state; he sometimes relied on Jim to quietly explain the nuances of body language he missed. McCoy looked at him in a measured, intentional stare that always made him feel raw, like every emotion he told himself he did not feel was actually written in black ink on his skin.

Still holding Spock’s gaze, McCoy set the PADD down, then slowly peeled off the gloves.

Spock tried not to stare as his fingers were revealed one by one. He failed.

McCoy approached his beside, stopping just in front of where Spock’s knees hung over the edge. He held out his left hand, palm up. “Gimme your hand.”

Spock raised his arm and allowed himself a small sliver of pride when his fingers did not tremble. He rested his hand against McCoy’s. The press of McCoy’s mind was still present, but it did not feel as overwhelming as before. Spock sensed the doctor’s nervousness, but now it felt muted, overshadowed by everything else swirling on the surface.

McCoy moved his hand from under Spock’s palm and slid up his wrist. He supported Spock’s arm as his right hand felt along the skin at the top of his forearm.

Spock’s consciousness was swallowed by the fringes of McCoy’s mind. He did not dare allow himself to go any deeper, for the current of thoughts already washing over him were almost too much to quell.

The doctor flipped Spock’s arm over and pressed his fingers against the small bones of Spock’s inner wrist. The movement was so controlled, so fluid, that Spock barely registered the transition. He felt more of McCoy’s mind, the care in which he tested Spock’s recovery, his concern over where they stood in their friendship, his insecurity outweighed by his confidence in his medical knowledge.

McCoy’s fingers moved over Spock’s palm, and this time when Spock’s eyes fluttered closed, it was not because he wanted them to. His thumb slid over Spock’s thenar region and up to the tip of his thumb. Spock involuntarily twitched. Wariness instantly doused McCoy’s mind, which Spock could more strongly feel through the points where their fingers touched.

After a pause, McCoy continued across his palm and up his pinky. A low buzz filled Spock’s ears. The regular sounds of the ship—her engines, the ventilation—faded away until all Spock could hear was McCoy’s soft breathing and his steady heartbeat. Or was it his own heartbeat? It sounded too fast to be Vulcan, but at this point Spock did not trust his internal life readings.

McCoy ran this thumb over each of Spock’s digits, lingering over the pointer and middle fingers, the ones that had been fractured. He pushed lightly at each fingertip.

All the while, Spock basked in McCoy’s mind, finding himself sucked farther in with each finger the doctor touched. When not dominated by fear and worry, the landscape of his thoughts didn’t resemble a hurricane, more like a summer’s day. A field of fresh-cut grass, a cold, bittersweet drink with extra lemon. Spock wouldn’t describe the scene as peaceful, but it was comforting, a slice of home that McCoy carried with him no matter how far he traveled into space.

McCoy finished with Spock’s fingers. His hand now cupped under Spock’s knuckles, and his thumb pressed into the region just below the ball of Spock’s pinky.

Spock inhaled sharply. He was now certain that the pulse rate he was hearing was his own, as it sped up in his ears. He tried to keep his outstretched hand still, but his other hand clenched around the edge of the biobed.

The doctor’s grip loosened on Spock’s hand, and he thought the exam might be over. He steeled himself for the release, prepared to once again return to the pit inside him that only seemed to ache even more in McCoy’s presence.

But he didn’t let go. Instead, he shifted his grip and turned Spock’s hand over again. He thrust Spock’s fingers up, pressing their palms flush together.

Spock didn’t suppress the shudder that wracked through his nervous system. If he’d compared McCoy’s mind to a hurricane before, now it was like standing in front of a wind tunnel. The rush of thoughts pounded into him—he thought of a waterfall, of standing beneath the rocket engines mankind used to build before they learned how to warp space. Everything just felt so much, and Spock felt _everything_.

He’d mind-melded with humans before. He was used to the turbulent nature of Jim’s mind by now, had felt the cocktail of emotions humans constantly housed inside them. Leonard McCoy’s mind was different. Spock didn't need to be in the _kash-nohv_ to sense his thoughts; the sensory points in the tips of his fingers was enough.

There was so much pouring out of McCoy, and Spock could feel it all. Nervousness, happiness, delight. His pride in his profession, his constant concern for the crew, his fear that one day he might not be able to save someone he loved.

He felt his love for his family. For his daughter, who he sent a vid-message to every week. For Nurse Chapel, Dr. M’Benga, and the rest of the _Enterprise’s_ medical crew with whom he had worked with for so long and survived so much that their bonds now stretched beyond just professional. For Jim, who McCoy would do anything for—scatter his atoms through a thousand transporter beams, jump in front of any weapon, cure every disease that plagued the galaxy. He would follow Jim anywhere he asked, regardless of how far it took them from Earth, because his home really was this ship, and his family was everyone who lived on her.

Spock also saw himself among the group of people McCoy loved. McCoy would never tell him as much, but he had come to rely on the Vulcan’s stubborn brand of logic. After years of scraping their way out of every sort of imaginable danger, he’d come to trust that Spock’s decisions were made with the best intentions for the crew, even when it didn’t seem like it. He also knew that they shared their love for Jim and would both do anything to keep him with them, and it was because of that love they shared that the list of things McCoy would sacrifice for Jim now coincided with the list of things he would sacrifice for Spock.

Spock gasped at the emotions pouring into him through where their hands touched. The batter of McCoy’s thoughts was so intense—the touch of his hand _burned_ so hot—that Spock’s left arm began to tingle as the nerves were overstimulated.

McCoy shifted his hand so their palms were no longer pressed together. He lowered their arms so that his fingers now rested under Spock’s hand, and his thumb traced lightly over Spock’s knuckles.

Spock knew he was watching him, could feel his gaze as physically as he felt his hand against his skin. He peeled his eyes open and looked into his face. If Spock had not just been in contact with his mind, he would not know what the doctor was thinking. He looked down at their joined hands, and embarrassment suddenly flushed in his cheeks.

It was not fair of him to take advantage of the doctor’s emotions like that, no matter how readily he offered them. Humans could not feel the connection the same way that Vulcans could, but now Spock was afraid his reaction had revealed his desire for something he was not supposed to want and could never ask for.

He cleared his throat and tried to reign his blood pressure back under control. He was ashamed of how his body betrayed him, and certain that the doctor could feel his racing pulse through his wrist. He started to apologize, even to ask for McCoy’s forgiveness for his inappropriate behavior.

Before he could begin, McCoy leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against Spock’s. Spock had been kissed before, but he could not remember if he had felt the same during those previous encounters. It was nothing like the sensations that still buzzed along the nerves of his hand, but it was still pleasant—deliberate and gentle, like all of McCoy’s other touches.

McCoy pulled away, and Spock thought that he would have liked if the moment had lasted a little longer. The doctor’s giddy smile was its own form of reward, though.

“That’s how we do it the human way,” he said. He moved his thumb across Spock’s middle knuckle.

Spock did his best to school his features into neutrality, but the corners of his mouth still twitched upwards. “Indeed. Perhaps I shall have to perform more experiments on this discovery.”

McCoy raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps I need to check your brain waves. Are you actually _flirting_ with me?”

Spock’s face heated. “It is against the scientific method to formulate conclusions without a full gathering of the facts. I was merely stating that—”

“Oh, I got all the facts.” He leaned in again, and even if Spock could have used his mouth to speak, he had forgotten what he had been about to say.

After all, when McCoy squeezed his wrist like that, nothing else seemed to matter except his touch.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, come check me out on [tumblr](https://jamestfortitsoutkirk.tumblr.com/) and ask me about hand reflexology.


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